New Year's Eve

It's cruel cold on the water-front, silent and dark and drear;
Only the black tide weltering, only the hissing snow;
And I, alone, like a storm-tossed wreck, on this night of the glad New Year,
Shuffling along in the icy wind, ghastly and gaunt and slow.

They're playing a tune in McGuffy's saloon, and it's cheery and bright in there
(God! but I'm weak - since the bitter dawn, and never a bite of food);
I'll just go over and slip inside - I mustn't give way to despair -
Perhaps I can bum a little booze if the boys are feeling good.

They'll jeer at me, and they'll sneer at me, and they'll call me a whiskey soak;
("Have a drink? Well, thankee kindly, sir, I don't mind if I do.")
A drivelling, dirty gin-joint fiend, the butt of the bar-room joke;
Sunk and sodden and hopeless - "Another? Well, here's to you!"

McGuffy is showing a bunch of the boys how Bob Fitzsimmons hit;
The barman is talking of Tammany Hall, and why the ward boss got fired;
I'll just sneak into a corner, and they'll let me alone a bit;
The room is reeling round and round ... O God, but I'm tired, I'm tired....

*    *    *    *    *

Roses she wore on her breast that night. Oh, but their scent was sweet;
Alone we sat on the balcony, and the fan-palms arched above;
The witching strain of a waltz by Strauss came up to our cool retreat,
And I prisoned her little hand in mine, and I whispered my plea of love.

Then sudden the laughter died on her lips, and lowly she bent her head;
And oh, there came in the deep, dark eyes a look that was heaven to see
And the moments went, and I waited there, and never a word was said,
And she plucked from her bosom a rose of red, and shyly gave it to me.

Then the music swelled to a crash of joy, and the lights blazed up like day;
And I held her fast to my throbbing heart, and I kissed her bonny brow;
"She is mine, she is mine for evermore!" the violins seemed to say,
And the bells were ringing the New Year in - O God! I can hear them now.

Don't you remember that long, last waltz, with its sobbing, sad refrain?
Don't you remember that last goodbye, and the dear eyes dim with tears?
Don't you remember that golden dream, with never a hint of pain,
Of lives that would blend like an angel-song in the bliss of the coming year?

Oh, what have I lost! What have I lost! Ethel, forgive, forgive!
The red, red rose is faded now, and it's fifty years ago.
'Twere better to die a thousand deaths than live each day as I live!
I have sinned, I have sunk to the lowest depths - but oh, I have suffered so!

Hark! Oh hark! I can hear the bells!... Look! I can see her there,
Fair as a dream ... but it fades ... And now - I can hear the dreadful hum
Of the crowded court ... See! the Judge looks down ... NOT GUILTY, my Lord, I swear ...
The bells, I can hear the bells again ... Ethel, I come, I come!...

*    *    *    *    *

"Rouse up, old man, it's twelve o'clock. You can't sleep here, you
know.
Say! ain't you got no sentiment? Lift up your muddled head;
Have a drink to the glad New Year, a drop before you go -
You darned old dirty hobo ... My God! Here, boys! He's DEAD!"

Robert William Service

Robert William Service was a British-Canadian poet and writer, often referred to as 'the Bard of the Yukon.' He is best known for his poems about the Canadian North, particularly the Yukon Territory. Service's works include 'The Shooting of Dan McGrew' and 'The Cremation of Sam McGee,' which have contributed significantly to Canadian literature. His vivid and robust storytelling style, often dramatic and humorous, captivated audiences and made him a prominent literary figure of his time.

Robert William Service

The Gramaphone at Fond-Du-Lac

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

A Rolling Stone

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

My Prisoner

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

Cocotte

Robert William Service, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Death in the Arctic

    I

    I took the clock down from the shelf;
    "At eight," said I, "I shoot myself."
    It lacked a MINUTE of the hour,
    And as I waited all a-cower,
    A skinful of black, boding pain,
    Bits of my life came back again. . . .

    "Mother, there's nothing more to eat -
    Why don't you go out on the street?
    Always you sit and cry and cry;
    Here at my play I wonder why.
    Mother, when you dress up at night,
    Red are your cheeks, your eyes are bright;
    Twining a ribband in your hair,
    Kissing good-bye you go down-stair.
    Then I'm as lonely as can be.
    Oh, how I wish you were with me!
    Yet when you go out on the street,
    Mother, there's always lots to eat. . . ."


    I...

Robert William Service

The Trapper's Christmas Eve

    It's mighty lonesome-like and drear.
    Above the Wild the moon rides high,
    And shows up sharp and needle-clear
    The emptiness of earth and sky;
    No happy homes with love a-glow;
    No Santa Claus to make believe:
    Just snow and snow, and then more snow;
    It's Christmas Eve, it's Christmas Eve.

    And here am I where all things end,
    And Undesirables are hurled;
    A poor old man without a friend,
    Forgot and dead to all the world;
    Clean out of sight and out of mind . . .
    Well, maybe it is better so;
    We all in life our level find,
    And mine, I guess, is pretty low.

    Yet as I sit with pipe alight
    Beside the cabin-fire, it's queer
    This mind of mine must take to-night
    The backw...

Robert William Service

The Low-Down White

This is the pay-day up at the mines, when the bearded brutes come down;
There's money to burn in the streets to-night, so I've sent my klooch to town,
With a haggard face and a ribband of red entwined in her hair of brown.

And I know at the dawn she'll come reeling home with the bottles, one, two, three;
One for herself to drown her shame, and two big bottles for me,
To make me forget the thing I am and the man I used to be.

To make me forget the brand of the dog, as I crouch in this hideous place;
To make me forget once I kindled the light of love in a lady's face,
Where even the squalid Siwash now holds me a black disgrace.

Oh, I have guarded my secret well! And who would dream as I speak
In a tribal tongue like a rogue unhung, 'mid the ranch-house filth and reek,
...

Robert William Service

The Passing of the Year

    My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
    My den is all a cosy glow;
    And snug before the fire I sit,
    And wait to FEEL the old year go.
    I dedicate to solemn thought
    Amid my too-unthinking days,
    This sober moment, sadly fraught
    With much of blame, with little praise.

    Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
    You stand to bow your last adieu;
    A moment, and the prompter's chime
    Will ring the curtain down on you.
    Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
    You falter as a Sage in pain;
    Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
    And face your audience again.

    That sphinx-like face, remote, austere,
    Let us all read, whate'er the cost:
    O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
    Is it for dear one ...

Robert William Service

The Absinthe Drinkers

He's yonder, on the terrace of the Cafe de la Paix,
The little wizened Spanish man, I see him every day.
He's sitting with his Pernod on his customary chair;
He's staring at the passers with his customary stare.
He never takes his piercing eyes from off that moving throng,
That current cosmopolitan meandering along:
Dark diplomats from Martinique, pale Rastas from Peru,
An Englishman from Bloomsbury, a Yank from Kalamazoo;
A poet from Montmartre's heights, a dapper little Jap,
Exotic citizens of all the countries on the map;
A tourist horde from every land that's underneath the sun -
That little wizened Spanish man, he misses never one.
Oh, foul or fair he's always there, and many a drink he buys,
And there's a fire of red desire within his hollow eyes.
And sipping of m...

Robert William Service

The Man from Eldorado

He's the man from Eldorado, and he's just arrived in town,
In moccasins and oily buckskin shirt.
He's gaunt as any Indian, and pretty nigh as brown;
He's greasy, and he smells of sweat and dirt.
He sports a crop of whiskers that would shame a healthy hog;
Hard work has racked his joints and stooped his back;
He slops along the sidewalk followed by his yellow dog,
But he's got a bunch of gold-dust in his sack.

He seems a little wistful as he blinks at all the lights,
And maybe he is thinking of his claim
And the dark and dwarfish cabin where he lay and dreamed at nights,
(Thank God, he'll never see the place again!)
Where he lived on tinned tomatoes, beef embalmed and sourdough bread,
On rusty beans and bacon furred with mould;
His stomach's out of kilter and his s...

Robert William Service